DISCLAIMER: All recognizable material belongs to Hiromu Arakawa.

A/N: This is just a short little thing I whipped up for my friend Taylor on tumblr, based on several pieces of art she's done of a ship she loves.

"Briggs? Really?"

Hawkeye, the only other officer in the room, glanced up from her paperwork. "What's that?"

A thick sigh escaped Jean and he waved the orders - perhaps more aptly described as a death sentence - in the air. "They're temporarily transferring me up north. I've got a week. Apparently they're short on staff and I meet thee qualifications for filling some shoes."

The blond Lieutenant quirked her lips up in her own version of a smile. "That's great, Havoc. Congratulations."

He tossed the paperwork on his desk, gritting his teeth. "It's not great, it's gonna be hell up there. Did you know Armstrong's sister runs that place? Armstrong. Thick, loud, sparkly Armstrong. I don't even want to think about what a female version of that would be like."

Riza chucked at that, returning her gaze to her work and scratching out a signature. "Relax, Jean. She's not as bad as you might think."

"So you've met her?"

"She and the Colonel don't exactly get along," she admitted, "but she's got a good head and she's an excellent leader. She's also very stern, which I think might be good for you."

Havoc bristled at that. "Are you saying I'm-"

"Yes."

Deflating a little, he returned to his seat, tapping his pen against the table for a minute. After a moment a sly grin spread across his face. "Hey, Hawkeye. Armstrong's sister- is she hot?"

He probably deserved the pen that hit him in the face.

xxXxx

Roy was nearly beside himself laughing.

Havoc's face tinged pink. "It's not funny, sir!" he protested.

"Of course it is," Mustang chuckled, slightly out of breath. "She'll eat you alive and use your own bones to pick you out of her teeth."

He balked a little at that, but remembered what Riza had said about the Colonel and Armstrong. "She doesn't hate me yet," he tried, doing his best not to whine. His luck with women wasn't great to begin with and this wasn't helping at all. "And there's no way to know how she'll regard me until she meets me."

"She hates everyone," Roy said flatly. "And a word of advice - don't hit on her if you value your manhood."

Havoc's lips twisted into a smirk. "Is there a story behind this that I should hear?"

His boss's face fell, and the level of irritation in his expression elevated faster than he would have thought possible. "Why are you still here, Havoc? Get out of my office!"

xxXxx

"MY DEAREST SISTER OLIVIER! HOW BLESSED IS THIS DAY!"

With several broken ribs and sweat imitating a waterfall down his face, Havoc could only muster a weak, "Major... please... put me down."

He was, of course, blatantly ignored.

Someday he would learn.

xxXxx

When the day finally came, anticipation and trace amounts of anxiety soaked his uniform. Tales of the infamous General Armstrong had snowballed in his head, leaving him with the mental image of a large blond bear. It took a lot more courage than he'd admit not to shrink

Jean's right arm shivered in its salute the moment he left the car, unable to ignore the chill that immediately sank into him. A passing thought ran through his mind that if the General didn't kill him, the climate would. So much for proving the Colonel wrong.

A thick silence hung in the air, rows of statuette pawns tucked perfectly into place as they awaited their queen.

"Don't look at her the wrong way. In fact, don't look at her at all."

Nervous glances to the left and right, searching for any hints at what to expect from the men who served this mythical creature.

"A hard, cold bitch, really."

A heavy gulp forced it way down his throat.

"I'll make sure they give you a nice funeral."

The gates finally opened, and Havoc had never seen such a grand entrance in his life.

Piles of blonde rode the winds around the woman, one ice cold eye piercing through the veil her mane created around her face. Her strong shoulders were held squarely, head up and proud, spine ramrod straight. The very air around her emanated assertion, teetering on the brink of hostility. She was, in every way, the perfect soldier, the perfect General.

Jean Havoc forgot how to breathe.